Page 12 of Release You

Nikki stood behind what used to be the hotel reception desk. She’d set it up like a butler’s pantry, complete with an espresso machine. I smiled at the back of her as she danced to the beat, pouring a healthy dose of chocolate syrup in her milk.

When we were kids, Mom would let us go in the kitchen and make hot chocolate. Even when it was a hundred degrees out, we’d sit in the garden and sip our drinks. We were only tenthen, but it hadn’t taken long for her to become my first crush, my first love, and years later, my first kiss. How did she not recognize me? Had I changed so much? I rubbed the dull pain in my chest. Of course I had. Dad’s death had changed everything, including me and this town.

“Finally, you’re staring at me like a proper creep.” She sauntered toward me with two cups in her hands. “Mocha? You look like a mocha kind of guy.”

Dad’s death had changed me, but not her. “No thanks. I prefer my coffee black.” I headed for the stairs.

“Henry. We need to talk, darling. Join me.”

My name on her lips froze me in place. I turned around, and she gestured for me to take a seat on thesofa.

Keeping my gaze on her, I closed the space between us. “The wall needs to come down.”

“Why?” She smiled and sipped her hot chocolate or mocha.

“I get it. You got me by the balls. You turned Mr. Paredes against me, my guys. I get it. We either work together, or we don’t work at all. Is that right?”

She cleared her throat, and small creases appeared between her brows. Was she expecting me to put up a bigger fight? “I’m willing to wait until tomorrow. Technically, you still have time to come up with the money.”

“You know that’s not going to happen. You’ll block me. But the fact that you’re willing to wait tells me you want my trust.”

She shrugged, looking in her mug.

“You want my trust? Tell me why you’re here. And remember I’ll know if you’re lying.” I sat next to her. The sofa was still damp, but the coolness felt good.

“It’s such a long story I don’t even know where to start.” She flashed me a bright, blinding smile before she ducked her gaze.

I was starting to think her act wasn’t an act, or maybe she’ddone it for so long she didn’t realize she was doing it. “You could start with your real name.”

She opened her mouth and then closed it, her gaze trained on me. The fear in her expression made me want to hold her. But would she let me? Or would she run away again? She braced her arm on the back of the sofa. Her eyes shifted toward the window in front of us and the massive sinkhole taking up the street. Was it possible her life was a massive wreck, just like mine?

“Don’t make me say it.” She turned to me.

A warm current spread through me, and I sank deeper into the sofa. She remembered me. In my head, the words from when we first met rang loud and clear. “I promise I won’t laugh at your name. Cross my heart and hope to die,” I’d said before I drew a cross on my chest with two fingers. Even then, she hated her name.

“Hipolita Morrow.” Nikki tucked her feet under her and leaned on the armrest.

“Was that so hard?” I braced my elbows on my thighs, covering my smile.

“You have no idea.” Her blue eyes pierced through my heart.

“Why are you here? Why the new name?”

“I made a promise to my sister.” She glanced at her hands, her thumb tracing the lines on her palm. That playful way of hers all gone. “Fifteen years ago, she was imprisoned for a crime she didn’t commit.”

“Are you sure?” I sat back.

“I’m sure.” She shot to her feet, eyes blazing. She was telling the truth or at least what she believed to be the truth.

“Are you here to, what? Help her escape?” I stood.

The pain, the longing, they were written all over her face.Maybe Hipolita hadn’t changed after all. She was just better at hiding her suffering than I was.

“No. To clear her name. She doesn’t want her freedom. She wants everyone to know she didn’t do it.”

After all these years, Lisa Morrow was innocent? The details of that night were a blur in my head. I’d just turned eleven. Lisa had been eighteen when they found her over Dad’s body, claiming someone had killed him. But all the evidence proved she’d done it—her fingerprints on the body, the weapon, her DNA under his fingernails…all the blood.

Could that be possible? Could it be possible that the woman they’d put in jail for Dad’s murder all those years ago was innocent?

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